


The Iron Price

by Fastslayne



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:25:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fastslayne/pseuds/Fastslayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A clan of dwarves have settled near Fornost, a town that sits at the foot of the Blue Mountains. Lady Elana, daughter of a local lord, commissions the work of a new blacksmith, only to realize there is more to him that meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story I have been posting at ff.net, but wanted to bring it over here, as well. It features an OFC and is set about twenty years prior to the events in the Hobbit, give or take. I do not claim to be an expert on Tolkien's world, and will be adding some of my own takes on Middle Earth and it's history. I love to hear feedback of any kind, so comments are very welcome!

“What are you doing here?”

 

Elana spun around, dropping the fine mail shirt she’d been fingering. She hadn’t heard him come in.

 

Nor did the blacksmith not look happy to see her. Covered in sweat from the fires of his forge, his face and forearms were smudged with soot and his eyes were fierce with his annoyance at being disturbed. Elana gulped.

 

“I’m sorry for intruding. I hadn’t intended to come here at all, otherwise I would have sent a note…” She was hedging, and he knew it.

 

“Yet here you are. In my forge, late at night. Why?” His dark face was impassive, but his eyes were glinting at her under his heavy brows.

 

She did not appreciate his commanding tone. She’d come here for HIS benefit, the wretch.

 

“Perhaps I came to check on how my commission is coming along.”

 

He did not like that. The impassive mask dropped from his face, replaced by a scowl.

 

“The work will be complete in a fortnight, as we agreed. Do you think I intend to cheat you?”

 

Elana shook her head. Of course she didn’t. He was far too proud for schemes and scams, this dwarf. 

 

“I came because I just heard some rather damning gossip, and as it concerns your brethren, I thought I’d best tell you immediately.”

 

“The affairs of myself and my people are no concern of yours. You had better leave before someone sees you here and you yourself become the subject of gossip.”

 

Elana lifted her chin. “Gossip does not concern me. Let the townspeople talk. I have done nothing wrong. I am merely visiting the town blacksmith to discuss work he is doing for my father.”

 

“Oh aye, several high-born ladies visit my forge at all hours of the night. I hammer away, and they leave quite satisfied with my work.” He sneered. “You are a fool if you think your father’s position will keep your reputation safe. Leave.”

 

The dwarf was impossible. Perhaps she would leave, damn him, and he could find out this news on his own. But that would be letting him win, and Elana did not easily lose battles of will. 

 

“I did not come here in the pouring rain to be sent away like some troublesome child.” Taking a deep breath, she pushed her damp hair out of her face and squared her shoulders. “Two of your clan are in danger. Apparently they are very young; I do not know their names.”

 

His eyes sharpened on her. She’d caught his attention. 

 

“Fili and Kili. My nephews. In danger how?”

 

Elana paused for a moment. They were his nephews? Explaining this was going to be difficult, and more than a little embarrassing for both of them.

 

“I do not know, exactly. I heard the news from my maid, Megga. She said several of the townsmen are in an uproar over the two of them. Apparently they have been coming into Fornost in the evenings and spending a deal of time at the Bull and Crown.”

 

The blacksmith stared at her. “Is that all? Last I checked, taverns’ are not particular over who frequents their establishment, so long as they have coin. Have my nephews not being paying their way?”

 

“No, no. Apparently the issue is with the tavern maids. One of them in particular, her name is Bessie.” Elana paused again. She had rushed over to his forge as soon as Megga told her about the danger, but hadn’t given much thought to how she’d explain this situation. She only half understood it herself, as Megga had blushed and stammered her way through the news.

 

He nodded. “I know Bessie. Buxom red-head, toothy smile. Known to be very friendly indeed, if you have the coin.”

 

Absurdly, Elana felt a spark of jealousy flare in her chest. So he was familiar with Bessie, was he? She should not be surprised; all men were the same, be they human or dwarf. But she had thought this blacksmith was different. She had heard rumors that he was actually a dwarven prince, and that he and his people were exiled from their homeland by some terrible calamity. It was an easy rumor to believe, for all that he was a lowly blacksmith. There was something about him, something noble and almost regal. When she had first walked into his forge with her commision, she had been surprised by his manners and courtesy. True, Elana had never spoken with a dwarf prior to the blacksmith, but she had heard they were generally uncouth and rather crass. Not the blacksmith; he had greeted her politely, and patiently listened as she detailed her idea for the sword that would be her father’s nameday present. However, given his comment about the infamous Bessie, perhaps he had only been masking an inherent crassness. She could not stop the frown that creased her face.

 

“I see.” The words came out in a huff, and she did not fail to notice that he had the audacity to smirk at her. “Well, as you’re familiar with Bessie’s extracurricular activities, then you know my meaning when I say your nephews have been making frequent use of her services.” Elana could not mask her disapproval; she practically spat the words out. 

 

The blacksmith appeared unphased. “They are young. And tupping a barmaid is hardly a crime. Is this all that you have to tell me? I am already aware of Fili and Kili’s tendencies, and I see no issue with my nephews having a bit of sport with a willing partner.”

 

Elana gaped at him. Tupping a barmaid is hardly a crime, indeed. “Are you daft? Of course there is an issue. Your nephews have been seen going upstairs with Bessie together, and coming back down together. They are sharing her. The townsmen are convinced that your nephews have bewitched her. Apparently she has flatly refused their entreaties to share her, and has taken no other customers since this unnatural business began!” Elana knew she was blushing from the roots of her hair down to her toes, but she had to be frank about what was occurring. She knew enough about what happened to between men and women to know that was going on at the Bull and Crown was beyond the pale...and the young men were dwarves, to boot. The men of Fornost did not take kindly to another race tempting their women into debauchery, whether said was woman was already debauched or no.

 

Elana waited for a response...and waited. The blacksmith was silent for a long moment, staring at her with an unfathomable look in his eyes. It was unnerving. Was he angry at her for being so blunt? Or was he upset by his nephews behaviour? Not for the first time, Elana questioned her wisdom in coming to him. From what she understood from Megga, the blacksmith was the leader of the dwarves who had made a camp on the outer edge of Fornost. He alone worked in the town, where the other dwarves mined the nearby Blue Mountains for coal and iron. Elana had been so distraught by news of what the townsmen were planning that she felt it was her duty to alert the dwarf who had been so courteous to her a few days prior.

 

She could stand the silence no longer. “The townsmen intend to capture your nephews the next time they come into town. I do not know what they will to do to them, but I fear for their safety. However disturbing their relationship with Bessie, they do not deserve to die for it.”

 

“I see.” The words were cold, emotionless. “Tell me, what do you find so disturbing and unnatural about all of this?” 

 

The blacksmith pinned her with his gaze, and slowly stalked towards her. Elana backed up unconsciously, until her the backs of her legs hit a rough wooden table. He kept coming, until mere inches separated them. Elana was very petite, and the blacksmith was taller than her for all that he was a dwarf. His massive body crowded her on all sides. 

 

“Is it the fact that Bessie enjoys the company of two men at once, or the fact that that the two men are dwarves?”

 

Elana gulped and self-consciously bit her lip. The blacksmith’s eyes tracked the movement, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a moment. When his eyes returned to her face, they seemed to burn into her. Elana ducked her chin and turned her face away.

 

He did not like that. Lifting one massive hand, he cupped her chin and forced her gaze to his. 

 

“You will answer me.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel behind it.

 

What could she say? She felt that any response would not be to his liking.

 

“I do not know. I am a maiden. My knowledge of such things is limited. I only know that the townsmen are appalled, and I cannot imagine it is for no reason.”

 

The blacksmith did not release her chin, his eyes continuing to bore into her.

 

“Let me enlighten you, then. Your precious townsmen are angry because Bessie has taken dwarves as her lovers, and clearly prefers my nephews skills to their clumsy caresses. But rather than realize their own failings, they say she has been bewitched and condemn my kin. for fucking their women. As if we would bother with human women, if women of our own race were not so scarce.”

 

Elana was beginning to panic. His grip on her chin was firm, and though he was not hurting her, his rough, angry words were frightening. He continued to stare at her, eyes dark with his anger and something else she could not identify. He licked his lips, and she had the absurd sense that he wanted to eat her.

 

“Do you understand what I’m saying, my lady? Do you see your townsmen for the cowards they are?”

 

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, let me go.”

 

His nostrils flared; abruptly, he dropped her chin and stepped away from her. This time, it was turned he who turned his gaze and could not meet her eyes.

 

“Forgive me, my lady. I should not have spoken to you so, nor laid a hand on you. I have a temper; we dwarves are famous for them. My people have been wandering for many years, and have been forced to leave whenever we try to settle due to these issues. My anger is with my nephew’s idiocy and the prejudice of men, not with you. “

 

Once again, Elana did not know how to respond. She was at once glad that he let her go, yet the skin on her face seemed to mourn the loss of his touch. 

 

“I understand,” she managed, her voice small and somewhat shaky. “I am sorry to bring you unwelcome news. I felt it was the right thing to do.”

 

He laughed, a harsh, angry bark that contained no mirth. “You do not understand. But I appreciate the sentiment. And again, I apologize for my behaviour. It will not happen again. To apologize, I shall finish your commission ahead of schedule and will not charge you for the work. You may send a servant to retrieve the sword next Tuesday.”

 

“That is not necessary...” she began, but he interrupted her. 

 

“I insist. Consider it a token of appreciation for coming to me with this news. Whether you admit it or not, you have taken a great risk with your reputation to be here tonight. I am at your service, my lady.” He finally met her gaze again, and gave her a short, polite bow.

 

Elena could tell she had been dismissed, but felt a lingering need to say something. She did not like how this was ending. 

 

“I shall be coming to collect the sword myself. And it occurs to me, blacksmith, that I never asked your name when first we met. I would have it now, if you please.”

 

He regarded her warily. “Why the sudden interest in my name, might I ask?”

 

She sighed. He was incredibly irritating at times. “Because I should like to tell my father the crafter of his impressive sword. And because I dislike thinking of you as simply “the dwarven blacksmith.” You gave me your nephews names; surely you have one too?”

 

He considered her for a long moment, and gently shook his head. “You must go, my lady.” He touched her elbow gently, and pushed her towards the door.

 

Elana sigh and walked out, looking for the waiting Megga who would accompany her back to her father’s home. That had not gone at all how she had planned; though to be fair, she had not had much of plan to begin with. 

 

“Lady Elana.” She glanced over her shoulder to see the blacksmith still standing in the doorway. 

 

“My name is Thorin. Thorin Oakenshield.”


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin watched the girl walk away from his forge, her maid hurrying to catch up. She had inclined her head and given him a small smile when he’d said his name, as if they had reached some sort of truce. She was a terrible fool.

Once she was out of eyesight, Thorin slammed the forge door shut and barred it closed. Her unexpected visit would teach him to leave his door unlocked so late at night. Angry townsmen, he could more than handle, but petite, doe-eyed women with a moral streak were another matter entirely. He could not believe her audacity; the lass had to be touched in the head, or incredibly wilful and ignorant of the ways of the world. Given her response to Bessie’s preferences, he had to assume it was the latter.

 

Lady Elana had marched right into his forge, determined to alert him of his kinsmen’s danger, yet heedless of the danger she put herself in in the process. He supposed he should be moved that she found him so trustworthy; however, his behaviour tonight would ensure that she’d not be so naive again. 

 

Thorin sighed. He was not proud of how he’d acted. He was dwarf, aye, and only male to boot, and hearing her prim account of his nephew’s unnatural behaviour set his blood to boiling. He was not sure what bothered him more; whether it was the news that once again, a town of men had reason to hate his kind, or whether it was her obvious distaste for Bessie’s choice in sexual partners. He had to admit, if only to himself, the latter irritated him more than it should.

 

Thorin knew he was attracted to Lady Elena. There was no point in denying that fact. The morning she had walked into his forge, he had smelt her before she’d even crossed the threshold. She had a delicious scent, fresh and clean, like rosemary and lemon and sunshine. It had flooded his senses, and her effect on him only intensified when he got a look at her.

 

She was a tiny woman by human standards, standing no more than five feet, with a slight chest and shapely hips She’d been bundled into a tidy velvet morning dress trimmed in ermine, with a single pearl winking at her throat from a delicate golden chain. Her red gold hair was a sleekly pinned into a simple bun, and her large green eyes were clear and bright. She was a definitively human beauty, possessing neither the generous figure and trademark beard of dwarvish woman, nor the cool, willowy elegance of the eleven race. 

 

He had not appreciated his physical reaction to her. Thorin was no stranger to the occasional covert tryst with a tavern wench, but he considered those encounters borne out of physical necessity rather than actual desire. As a prince of his race, he was loathe to admit he actively found human women appealing, when his people were dying out due to a lack of dwarven unions. Female dwarves were rare, it was true, but the lack of children stemmed from more than just their scarcity. Like their male counterparts, female dwarves were jealous by nature and did not easily forgive. Many female dwarves could not stand the idea that their partners might have been with human women, no matter how long ago, and thus many chose to remain alone and abstinent rather than align themselves with a dwarf whom they could not call their own in every way. 

 

It was a problem that had no easy solution, especially now that the line of Durin was wandering the wide world. With human women readily available, and often eager to explore “the other side,” the younger dwarves of his line had little reason to control their lust. They were a race driven by passions, physical and emotional, and Thorin was hard-pressed to reign in his own desires, let alone those of his brethren. The best he could do was set a good example, and hope his men would follow him in that as they did in everything else.

 

Which was why, of course, he found it extremely inconvenient that Lady Elena had such a visceral effect on him. The second she had walked into his forge, he had wished with all his might that she would immediately walk out again once she got a look at him. Surely, a high-born lady would not seek the custom of a dwarvish blacksmith. Where once his race had been revered for their skill at the forge, Thorin found himself doing only the lowliest work in the human towns far west of Erebor. Men coveted Elvish work in this part of the world.

 

Certainly, it had seemed like Lady Elena would bolt when she first laid eyes on him. Her jaw had dropped a little, and she could not disguise the look of shock on her face, though she certainly gave it a valiant effort. But Thorin was monitoring her closely, and he soon recognized her reaction for what it really was. She desired him. She likely did not care to realize it herself, but he could smell her body’s reaction to him. It was subtle, just the barest shift of hormones and heart-rate, but it was enough to make his own blood rush downwards. He had clearly been too long without a woman.

 

Hoping civility would prove an antidote to his lust, he’d politely greeted her and asked how he might help. Lady Elena had quickly wiped the shock of her face, and answered him with equal courtesy. She was looking to surprise her father with a present, a sword of dwarvish make. Apparently her lord father was something of a collector, and had several different swords made by notable smiths among men and elves.

 

“But he hasn’t a dwarvish sword, so I thought you might assist me with completing his collection. I have heard some dwarves are quite skilled at crafting beautiful weaponry.” She had locked eyes with him then, and Thorin had felt another bolt of lust stab through him. Mahal, but his body’s reactions were ridiculous. He’d quickly assured her that he could make something suitable for her father, and had even given her an extremely low price so she would not be tempted to haggle with him. He needed her to leave as soon as possible, before she saw through his manners and read the hunger in eyes.

 

The second she left, he’d thrown himself into hammering out the axles for a new cart, desperate to lose himself in physical activity. He’d succeeded in exhausting himself, but the lust had not abated. Her scent seemed to have permeated his forge, and he’d spent a restless night before finally giving in and grant himself some release. Thorin despised his own weakness, but soon reconciled himself with facts. He had not been around a woman who was not a blood relative in quite some time, and he was in the prime of his life by dwarven standards. It was only natural that he would react to a young, fertile female. And he could easily avoid seeing Lady Elana again if he wished. In fact, when she came back to pick up her commission, he could have Balin watch the forge so he would not be present. He would not have to deal with the unwanted lust a second time. 

 

But of course, as was the tenor of his life, Thorin had not been so lucky.

 

Three days had passed since their first encounter, and he had not thought of the Lady Elena since that brief moment of pleasure he’d allowed himself in bed. He was consumed by his work in the forge, and by his daily trek to the dwarvish settlement outside the town’s walls. Running a forge required he live in town, but he made sure to break bread with his own people every day. They needed their leader’s presence as much as he needed theirs.

 

Tonight, he had returned from the settlement later than usual; his sister, Dis, had been in a rare good humor and had joined him for supper. Seeing his sister out and about had made his heart feel light; too often, she kept herself secluded from everyone save her sons. Thorin had been reluctant to leave her when she was in the mood for company, but he had a set of axes to complete before the morning. He’d been so distracted by thoughts of his sister that he had left the forge door wide open as he’d hurriedly slung a leather apron about his neck and set to work. He had just begun to temper the metal for a blade when the waft of lemon and rosemary had invaded his senses. 

 

Thorin rested his forehead against the stone wall of the forge as the encounter replayed again in his mind. He could not believe she’d come to him so late at night, whatever the danger might have been to his kin. Had she truly thought nothing of her own reputation, of her own safety? Thorin prided himself on his ability to mask his emotions, but surely the girl was not so blind to his desire for her. Or, if he had succeeded in hiding his lust, she still must know better than to visit a man alone after dark. Anyone who saw her would think she was sneaking out to see a lover. 

 

At first, Thorin had thought that was the purpose of her visit. He’d had woman seek him out before; generally they were wives of local men, bored and looking for the thrill of the unknown. Thorin had always turned them away. He was a prince of Durin, and would not lower himself to be some farmwife’s adventure for an evening. At least with a barmaid, sex was a simple monetary transaction, coin paid for services rendered. He liked simple.

 

Yet Lady Elana was anything but simple. When he realized she’d not come for a tryst and instead to give him news, Thorin had been relieved. He was not sure he’d have been able to turn her down, had she propositioned him. But the relief had been short-lived as she launched into the situation with his nephews. 

 

Aye, but he would wring both of their necks. Fili and Kili were good lads, but they had a wild streak and were ever egging the other on. They were still very young and had spent their entire lives in exile, where the only dwarven woman were their mother’s age or older. Include the fact that the boys were both tall and strikingly handsome for dwarves, and it was inevitable they would have more than their fair share of “attention” from human woman. And where Thorin did not often indulge himself, the twins more than made up for his restraint. 

 

In fact, Thorin’s people had been forced to leave their last settlement in the Breelands because Fili had been caught tupping a merchant’s wife in the back of a shop. Fili swore she had come on to him, but when caught in the act, the woman claimed he had raped her and the entire dwarven company was driven out of town. It later came out that woman had confessed she’d been with several other men in the town and had cleared Fili’s name, but by then it was too late. The dwarves had been uprooted, and Dis had suffered the shame of her son’s actions. 

 

That was Thorin’s sticking point. He could endure most anything, but he could not bear to see his sister or his people suffer anymore than they already had. But if what Lady Elana had told him was true, then once again, his people were in harm’s way. And for what? Because his nephews could not control their desires? They were not bad men; were they to be condemned for enjoying pleasure that was freely offered? Thorin had little doubt that Bessie had made her interest in them apparent; she’d done the same to him when he’d gone to the tavern for an ale. Yet for all that Bessie was willing, the townsmen said she had to be under some spell in order to desire a dwarf. 

 

And by the way Lady Elana had spoken, she agreed with them. The second the word ‘unnatural’ had crossed her lips, Thorin had seen red. Driven by anger and a selfish need to prove that he was not alone in the attraction that flared between them, he’d purposefully cornered her, forcing her to feel his body heat and meet his gaze so he could gauge her reaction to his nearness. He knew he’d unsettled her, but he was intoxicated by her smell and the feel of her delicate face in his hands and he could not bring himself to care. It was only when she’d pleaded with him to let her go that he’d detected the acrid hint of fear in her scent. It had burned in his nostrils, making him instantly disgusted with himself. What had he done?

 

He’d made what apologies he could and all but pushed her out the door, but strangely, once he’d let her go, she seemed to be unphased by his behaviour. When she’d asked his name, Thorin could only assume she meant to report him to the townsmen for assaulting her, but something had made him reconsider. For all that he was attracted to her, he also had to acknowledge a grudging respect for her moral fortitude and courage. She’d risked herself to warn him of danger, and he’d repaid her by pawing at her like some savage orc. The least he could do was give her his name, to do with as she would.

 

Thorin surveyed his now empty forge. Lady Elana’s scent continued to linger, which made him thankful that he had the axes to finish before the morning. With any luck, he’d be up all night completing the project and would avoid any temptation to slack his lust as he had before. 

 

Now, more than ever, he could not be distracted by his attraction to this human woman. Thorin had his peoples’ well being to think of. They were prospering in this settlement, and could ill afford to seek yet another home. Somehow, he had to diffuse this situation at the tavern, and find a way to keep his nephews safe.


	3. Chapter 3

“My lady? Wake up, my lady.”

 

Elena started awake and looked wildly about, still half in a dream. She had been in a dark room, with a low fire burning, and a rumbling voice had been talking to her in a low, threatening tone. She had been turning around and around, trying to locate the voice but could see only shadows until she felt a firm hand close around her neck...

 

The events of the previous night rushed back to her as she plopped back against her pillows. God, but she was an impetuous fool. 

 

“What time is it?” she mumbled to Megga, who was busy laying out her breakfast tea.

 

“A bit past nine. I’m sorry to wake you, but I did not dare to let you sleep any later. You normally rise so early, and I didn’t want to make anyone suspicious.”

 

Elena pushed herself up from the warm bed,swinging her legs over the side and into her fur lined slippers. “Thank you. I know you didn’t get much sleep yourself, with my keeping you out so late. You did not have to accompany me, you know.”

 

Megga tsked. “What, and let you steal into town alone and unprotected? It was on account of my wagging tongue that you went on that little mission in the first place. You are too eager to involve yourself, my lady, if you don’t mind me speaking plainly.”

 

Elena gave a self-depreciating laugh and picked up her teacup. “You are only speaking the truth. I should not have rushed off to warn the dwarf as I did. It could have easily waited until this morning. But what’s done is done, and we’re none the worse for wear.”

 

Her maid gave her skeptical look and bit her lip. “Are you sure about that, my lady? You were so quiet on way back last night. And just now, you were breathing so heavily in your sleep and thrashing about. What happened in the forge? That creature didn’t hurt you, did he?”

 

“No, he didn’t hurt me. And he’s not a creature, Megga. He’s a person. He said his name is Thorin.”

 

“And was this “Thorin” duly grateful for the warning you gave him? I don’t know that any dwarf deserves the trouble you went to, no matter how “courteous” he is.”

 

Elena schooled her face, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible. It would not do for Megga to learn anything about how the encounter had actually gone. She was fiercely protective of her mistress, and would be the first to see the blacksmith strung up for his impertinence. 

 

“Of course he was grateful. He thanked me very properly and even offered to finish my commision early. “ There. That was at least part of the truth. She busied herself with tea, hoping Megga would ask no more questions.

 

“Well, that’s something, then. At least he’s not a complete barbarian. Unlike those two at the tavern. Did the blacksmith tell you what he planned to do about them? Perhaps the whole clan will pack up and leave Fornost and save us all from any more trouble.”

 

Elena sipped her tea. “I do not think that it will come to that. From what Thorin said, he and his people have been on the road many years seeking a new home. I don’t think they will leave unless they absolutely have to. Why are you so against the dwarves, Megga? They have been very good for business, by all accounts. Father said the coal and iron they have been producing has drawn considerable new trade to the area.”

 

Megga bristled. “First of all, my lady, I don’t think it’s quite proper for you to be referring to that dwarf by his first name. And secondly, I think you could stand to be a bit more wary of this blacksmith and his people. Dwarves are said to be grasping and foul tempered, not to mention unscrupulous. They’re almost all male, and just look what they’ve done to Bessie. They have their greedy eyes on all the women in this town, make no mistake.”

 

Elena has a sudden flashback to the night before, when the blacksmith had pinned her against the table and grasped her chin in his hand. She remembered the hot look in his eyes and how helpless she had felt. But he had not hurt her, and seemed to immediately regret his behaviour. Surely, he was no more dangerous than any other man of any other race when his temper was roused.

 

“Megga, you must stop being so prejudiced.” Elena used her firmest tone. “They are not monsters just because they are different than what you know. I doubt very much the dwarves have done anything to Bessie that she did not openly encourage. Have you ever even spoken to a dwarf?”

 

Her maid answered her grudgingly. “No, I haven’t. I’ve only seen them at a distance,when they bring their ore into town. They are so hairy, my lady! And short and brutal looking. How could Bessie actually desire such beastly looking men?.”

 

“Perhaps up close they are not so beastly,” said Elena. The blacksmith was certainly not beastly. He was very male, it was true, but pleasingly so. He was rugged and quite handsome, just a different sort of handsome than the more slender and angular men of Fornost.

Of course, Elena could not admit that to her maid. She continued, “And perhaps they are kind to Bessie. Perhaps they compliment her and make merry jokes and she enjoys their company.”

 

Megga sighed, sensing she was getting nowhere with her argument. “Perhaps. In any case, it sounds as if your commission will be done soon and we won’t have much cause to interact with the dwarves after that. Now, come, let me do up your hair. You are to meet with your lady mother at ten past to call on Mrs. Bluelyn.”

 

Elena set her teacup down with an abrupt clang. “Mrs. Bluelyn? But I have lessons with Master Cowlter this morning. I will not miss them.”

 

Master Cowlter was her father’s newest tutor. He had been take the place of old Master Pulti a year ago, and Elena liked him a great deal. Her father, Lord Darnan, kept a lore-master in his household to teach his children (and himself) about the history and languages of the many different peoples of Middle Earth. All the other masters in Fornost had been trained in the great university in Minas Tirith, but Master Cowlter had actually gained a considerable part of his education in Imladris. A master who had been trained by the great elf Lord Elrond was highly coveted; Elena felt very fortunate to learn from such a knowledgeable scholar.

 

Megga smirked at her. “Your mother moved your lessons to this afternoon. You’ll not get out of this visit, my lady. You mother has her heart set on a mighty prize for you “

 

Elena knew her maid was right. Mrs. Bluelyn’s son, Erik, son of Arton,was widely considered the most eligible bachelor in Fornost and the surrounding towns. Indeed, as her mother frequently reminded her, one would have to travel south far into Rohan before one might find another man who was his equal. Erik was a strikingly beautiful man; tall and lean, with closely cropped golden hair and tawny eyes. Additionally, the Bluelyns, while not lords under the current political structure, could trace their lineage back to the first Numenoreans who had settled in Arnor an age ago. They had cousins in high standing in Gondor, along with vast wealth and many holdings beyond their principal seat in Fornost.

 

Elena had only ever glimpsed Erik Bluelyn when she was a deal younger; he was seven years her senior, and had only just returned from a five year stay with his relatives in Osgiliath. His return a month ago had been the talk of Fornost. Mrs Bluelyn, already a very popular woman, had been inundated with visitors. Elena had gone with her mother to the Bluelyn estate twice a week to call, but they had yet to catch site of the mysterious Erik. If the man had any wits about him, he was likely hiding from all the determined mothers with eligible daughters in tow. Which was perfectly fine with Elena, as she had no desire to meet him, either.

 

In fact, if she were honest with herself, Elena was rather dismayed at his return. For the past five years, she had managed to live without too much pressure from either parent to choose a husband. She liked to believe that this was because her parents were forward-thinking and did not think it was her solemn duty to marry well and produce high-born heirs, but she knew better. Her mother simply did not want to waste her only daughter on some lesser lord of Fornost when Erik Bluelyn was yet unattached. He would eventually return home to Fornost, and when he did, Elena would be available. Of course, Elena knew her mother was imminently practical--if Erik, son of Arton, died, or even worse, picked another bride, then they could always find Elena another husband among the sons of the other lords. Lord Darnan was the wealthiest and most influential man in this small corner of Middle Earth, and there was no end of petty lords and rich merchants seeking his favor. Yes, Elena would be married. It was only a matter of when, and to whom--neither of which were things she was likely to have any control over. 

 

Snapping out of her brief reverie, Elena returned her maid’’s smirk and walked over to her dressing table. “Well, at least my dear mother did not cancel my lessons entirely. With any luck, we’ll spend our usual hour making conversation with Mrs. Bluelyn without any sightings of the prized heir. I expect to be back before lunch.” She thought for a moment, as Megga brushed her hair and began pinning it back. “But just in case, I think I shall wear my taupe silk dress.”

 

Megga met her mistress’s eyes in the mirror. “My lady, that color does absolutely nothing for your complexion.”

 

Elena gazed back at her, all innocence. “Exactly. As I said, I expect to be back before lunch.”

 

Master Cowlter had just finished his lunch and begun walking towards the large solar where he held his lessons when he caught sight of his pupil hurrying towards him. Clad in a flowing gown of taupe silk with a simple blue cloak about her shoulders, Lady Elena looked rather flustered

 

“Oh, Master Cowlter, I am so glad I caught you in you time. I thought you might cancel our lessons for today if I was late.”

 

“Nonsense. I am your father’s lore-master, and therefore, your lore-master. If you are late, you can still command me to instruct you. That is my duty.”

 

Lady Elena smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well, you know I leave all commanding to my father. And Master Pulti used to cancel our lessons whenever he had a reason to. I think he was always looking for an excuse to take a nap, the poor old man.”

 

Cowlter smiled back at her. “It is a good thing I am younger than Master Pulti, then. Shall we?”

 

They walked into the brightly lit solar; it was strewn with books and maps beyond counting, but contained only two chairs and a large writing desk. Master Cowlter was currently indexing all the texts into a logical order, but his work was slow going. Lord Darnan had an impressive collection, but Master Pulti had done nothing in the past twenty years to keep track of the growing library. 

 

Elena settled into her chair as Master Cowlter retrieved two copies of the poem they had been reviewing, handed one to her, and settled into his own chair across from her. The poem was a lay of Earendil written in Sindarin, which Elena was learning to read. She, like most other high born human women, could speak the eleven tongue passably well, but learning to read it was a challenge. Elves used the Tengwar script in most of their writings, and she had only ever learned the Common alphabet. It made reading the text painfully slow, but once she mastered reading in Tengwar,she would be able to read most of the scrolls in her father’s collection.

 

Today, however, she could not keep herself interested in reading elvish script. After only a few moments of looking blankly at page before her, she closed the book. 

 

“Forgive me, Master Colwter, but what do you know of dwarvish history?”

 

Cowlter looked over to her in surprise. “I learned quite a bit about the dwarrows in my time with Lord Elrond. What do you wish to know?”

 

Elena was silent for a moment, choosing her words very carefully. “Well, I’m sure you know that a dwarf settlement has sprung up on the outskirts of the town. I was just wondering if you knew anymore about them. It seems like we focus very little on dwarf culture, but it might be prudent to learn more as they are now in our midst.”

 

Master Cowlter nodded approvingly. “Yes, you’re quite right. I had heard that a clan had settled near here. They are miners, correct? There are several lesser dwarf clans who have taken to wandering Middle Earth, making a living doing work wherever they are needed.”

 

Elena frowned. “What do you mean, lesser clans? The dwarves have hierarchies?”

 

“Oh yes. Much like men and elves, there are several branches of dwarves, each with their own heritage. There were once seven great kingdoms of dwarves, before Sauron and the first darkness. Dwarves have diminished in Third Age, though they maintain some impressive kingdoms in the mountains far east of here. “

 

Elena leaned forward eagerly. “How familiar are you with their naming customs? Would you be able to determine which clan they belong to by a patronym? Only I commissioned a sword for my fathers as a surprise, and the dwarvish blacksmith was kind enough to give me his name.”

 

Master Cowlter smiled at her indulgently. “I am not an expert in Dwarvish history, but I will see what I can do. At the very least, we can consult the few texts I have on the dwarrows to see if we can’t find the clan name. What is the patronym?”

 

“Oakenshield. He said his name was Thorin Oakshield.”

 

A surprised laugh burst from Master Cowlter’s lips. “Lady Elena, you are cleverer than I thought. What a splendid joke.”

 

Lady Elena did not return his laugh. “I fail to see what is so funny. Is that a common name for a dwarf?”

 

Cowlter instantly became more somber. “No. I’m sorry my lady, I did not mean to laugh at you. I thought you were playing a joke on me. You see, that is the name of exiled dwarf prince. Thorin Oakenshield, son Thror, son of Thrain, is the heir to the race of Durin. Of all dwarves, they are the most lauded, the most revered, the most powerful. Or they were, until their home was stolen from them. Nearly forty years ago, Durin’s folk were driven from their kingdom in Erebor by a terrible dragon. Smaug, he is called. He came down from the Northern wild and destroyed all in his path before seizing their homeland.”

 

Elena nodded. “Yes, I remember this story. My old nurse used to tell me that if I was naughty, Smaug the dragon might come to get me. She said little girls with golden curls where his favorite thing to eat.

 

“I cannot say about the golden curls, but Smaug certainly desires gold. It is an incurable craving amongst all dragons; they are forever seeking gold, only to hoard it when they do find it. The dwarves of Erebor had grown immensely rich and powerful; their wealth was unmatched in all of Middle Earth. Smaug took it all from them. The fall of Erebor is actually one of the few true calamities of the Third Age. I am certain I have a scroll or two concerning it in my personal collection, if you would care to read more.”

 

“Thank you, I would. But Master Cowlter, might we discuss the blacksmith more? Do you suppose he was jesting when he gave me that name?”

 

Cowlter was silent for a moment; he did not want to make Lady Elena feel foolish. “Well, in all likelihood, he was teasing. The story of Smaug and the dwarves of Erebor has become very common, along with the name of Thorin Oakenshield. Perhaps he assumed you would know that was not his real name.”

 

Elena was not convinced. The context in which she had learned the blacksmith’s name did not lead her to believe he had been jesting. “That is possible. But Master Cowlter, is it possible that this blacksmith is who he claims? Whatever became of this Thorin and his people?”

Now it was Master Cowlter’s turn to feel foolish. “I can’t rightly say. King Thror tried to take back the ancient kingdom of Moria, but he was slain. After that, the dwarves of Erebor were said to be wandering the world, seeking a new home. I suppose it is possible that they are the clan who has settled near Fornost. Can you describe the blacksmith, my lady? There are some distinguishing traits he would have if he is as he claims.”

 

“Well, he is very tall--taller than I, in fact, though that is no great feat. But still, for a dwarf, he is far larger than I would have expected. And he has very dark black hair, and his eyes are a rather startling shade of blue.” 

 

Elena felt immensely uncomfortable giving such a vivid description of a man, but Master Cowlter didn’t seem to notice. He rubbed the top of his bald head as he thought aloud. “Tall, with dark hair and the blue eyes of his sires. Tell me, my lady, did you notice any braids in his hair?”

 

Elena had to think for a moment. “Yes, actually. He has twin braids on either sides of his temples. They were secured with silver fastenings.”

 

“An heir’s braids,” Cowlter muttered. “Your description fits what is known about the royal line of Durin. They are unusually tall for dwarves, with light blue eyes. And Thorin is the firstborn son of his father, so it would be expected for him wear braids to signify that. Still, it is a lofty claim to make. I would not expect Durin’s heir to be quietly working as a humble blacksmith. His folk are a very mighty people, for all that they have been laid low by the calamity that befell them.”

 

“Forty years is a long time to be in exile, Master. Perhaps long enough to humble even the loftiest of lords. And I have even heard that there is gossip in town, saying he is actually a prince. There is often a kernel of truth on the tip of wagging tongues. ” Elena tried to keep her voice sensible and neutral, but she was utterly fascinated by this conversation. What if the blacksmith was who he said? 

 

“You are right, my lady. I cannot wholly discount this dwarf’s claim without meeting and speaking with him myself. You said he has a forge in town? Perhaps I will go speak with him soon, to see what I can learn. I confess, you have made me very intrigued.”

 

“Then you shall come with me when I return to the forge on Tuesday,” said Elena with a clap of her hands. “The blacksmith said my father’s sword will be completed then. I would so enjoying learning the truth about the dwarves here, whomever they may be.”

 

“I shall do my best to help you, my lady. But in the mean time…” Cowlter looked pointedly down at the closed poem in her hands.

 

“Yes, yes, it is back to Tengwar.” Elena opened the volume and did her best to focus on the difficult script. But her mind kept drifting back to the blacksmith, who might in fact be an exiled prince.


	4. Chapter 4

The sword was perfect.

Outside his forge, the blade shone like glass in the early morning sun, brilliantly reflecting the light as Thorin gave an experimental thrust. Like all good weapons, the sword felt like an extension of his arm, the blade heavy but perfectly balanced. He had tempered and hammered out the steel thrice over, beating the metal into a seamless shaft before inlaying it with dwarven runes for victory and protection. Not since crafting Fili's twin blades had he cause to create a beautiful piece of weaponry; it was a sword fit for a warrior, produced by a prince. And yet, this blade would never defend the line of Durin. No, its owner would be a human.

A sudden, overwhelming rage bubbled up inside of him. Thorin was no stranger to these fits of anger; there had been a time, after the fall of Erebor and the beheading of King Thrain, that he'd feared he would lose his mind to the rage and loss that filled him. Each day he struggled to watch his folk wander and go hungry; each night he was plagued by nightmares. But always, always he remembered his duty to his people-he could not, would not, fail them where his father and grandfather had. And that conviction is what had saved him. He had learned to control his emotions, to keep his anger at bay, to look ahead and never behind.

But at this moment, when there was no one around to witness, Thorin let the rage take him. A dwarvish sword, an heirloom of his people, would sit in the home of a rich human lord, collecting rust mounted on a wall. It would be a curiosity only, a showpiece of a fallen race, its true purpose forgotten. The metaphor with his own people was too obvious to ignore. With a roar, Thorin swung the sword overhead and down in a terrible blow, before whirling and thrusting again. Never, Thorin swore in his mind. Never, never, never.

He kept battling, thrusting and parrying, eviscerating the invisible demons who plagued him. Thrust, thurst, parry, thrust, duck, thrust, spin, thrust, spin, CLANG.

Thorin stumbled backwards, nearly loosing his footing with a muffled curse He had been swinging at space and had not braced himself for steel to meet steel. He righted himself and charged forward without thinking, ready to eviscerated whomever had attacked him.

The sword whistled harmlessly through the air, his attacker having moved quickly out of the way. Thorin spun around, finally meeting the laughing eyes of his opponent. Dwalin.

"Greetings, m'lord. Tell me, how many orcs did you kill before I came to give you a real challenge? I counted at least six."

Thorin gave a low chuckle. "Your eyes must be growing weak along with the rest of you. It was fifteen, if not more."

Dwalin quirked an eyebrow. "Weak, am I? I believe there is a bruise on your ribs that says otherwise." He stepped forward quickly and pushed a meaty hand against Thorin's chest, causing his king to take a short, pained breath.

Thorin pushed him off, laughing through the dull ache in his ribs. "You landed a lucky blow and you know it. Besides, that was nearly a week ago. We shall see if you can best me a second time. But speaking of sparring, what are you doing here? Why aren't you training with the lads? It is early yet."

"Aye, tis early. But your nephews cried off from training today. They have been down at the Bull and Crown since dawn. That inn keeper is taking full advantage of the deal you offered him. He has them completely rebuilding his barn and outbuildings. The lads are not pleased."

Thorin's face darkened. "It's no more than they deserve. They are lucky I was able to negotiate with him at all. A little hard work will not kill them; perhaps they will finally learn to control themselves."

Dwalin frowned back at him. "Perhaps. Though I question what true crime they committed to warrant such a punishment. That lass is more than willing to bed any dwarf that comes across her path-she makes no secret of her interest. She all but dipped her breasts in my ale when last I went to the inn."

"Yet you managed to control yourself. You know how humans react when we enjoy their women. Fili and Kili know it too, and are past the point of using their youth as an excuse. Men will find any reason they can to hate our race; we cannot give them fuel for their fire." Thorin let out an exasperated sigh, and contemplated the sword in his hands.

Dwalin followed his gaze, and leaned closer to inspect the weapon. "A new blade? Which of the dwarflings has earned this honor? It is unlike you to bestow a weapon without consulting me."

"It is not for any of your trainees. I received a hefty commission for a dwarvish blade from one of the townspeople. I could not refuse it." Thorin kept his tone neutral. He did not want to discuss the commission in any detail.

Dwalin would not deterred. "A human commissioned a dwarvish weapon? That has not happened since our time in Erebor. Surely he did not agree to pay the price such a weapon is worth?"

"I told you, the commission was hefty. We are not in a position to refuse the coin that one of our swords will bring. If we are lucky, we will receive more weapon commissions once the men of this town see our work. " Thorin failed to mention that he had waived the price for the sword, just as he failed to make any mention of Lady Elena. Dwalin was his closest friend, but Thorin would not willingly admit that his own lack of control had forced his honor to eat the cost of the weapon.

Dwalin nodded, though a heavy frown creased his brow. "You are right, of course. But it grates to think of these soft, unworthy men wielding one of our swords. These men of Fornost are not like the warriors of Dale. I have not seen any whom I could not best with two blows."

Thorin gave his friend an indulgent smile. "I don't think there are many dwarves whom you could not best with two blows either, my friend. Myself excluded, of course. Come, let me put this sword away and grab my own. That is why you are here, correct? Since I robbed you of your daily pummeling of my nephews, you came to pummel me instead?"

Dwalin gave a rough bark of laughter and followed him into the forge. "You know me well. I was hoping you would have the time for a quick bout. "

"Aye, I haven't the time, really, but I have energy to burn. I am making nails and horse shoes today, hardly taxing work. It will be good to use my strength for more than hammering." Thorin set the newly made sword aside, and began pulling on his mail and forearm guards.

Dwalin eyed his king. "I still do not understand why you insist on smithing, my lord. You are our king. You could train the dwarflings with me, or oversee the mining operations. You could run our accounts with Balin. We have other smiths amongst us, none so talented but these men do not need our finest work. They would hardly know the difference."

Thorin stilled is motions, his back to Dwalin. "I am no king, Dwalin. There is no realm for me to rule. A king in name only is no king at all. I am most useful to our people as a smith; my craft brings in a deal of money. I will stop smithing only once our people have regained their rightful place in this world."

Dwalin snorted. "And what is our rightful place? I assume you mean once we have established a new home; you cannot mean Erebor."

Thorin was silent for a moment. His mind was never far from Erebor, it was true. But he was in no position to make a journey to the Mountain, not for some years at least. His people needed peace and stability, and he would not risk an attempt on the Mountain until he was certain they were well-cared for.

"I am not discussing this further. If I am your King, then obey me and cease bringing the subject up. " Thorin finished fitting his armor and looked about for his sword belt, before remembering it was in the back room of the forge near his whet stone. "I'll be back in a moment. Try not to break anything while I'm gone."

"The only thing I plan on breaking is your nose, you bossy bastard," Dwalin called after him.

Thorin grinned as he stepped into the back room. Dwalin was the only one of his folk who would dare speak to him thus. Their friendship had not changed when Thorin had taken up the mantle of king some years back; they had been through too much for any false pretense or airs of polite behavior. Dwalin was steadfast and there was not a dwarf in all of Middle Earth more loyal, but he took every opportunity to rib his king. Humor came easily to Dwalin for all that he was a fierce warrior-Thorin had always envied that about him. His own tendency toward seriousness made him appreciate his friend's ready laughter all the more.

Spying his sword belt hanging over the whet stone, Thorin grabbed it and began quickly fastening it about his waist. If he hurried, they should have a good hour to spar before he needed to start his work for the day. His fingers were tightening the belt when he smelt her. Lemons and rosemary. Shit. It was Lady Elena. She had not sent a servant after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Elana was more nervous than she cared to admit.

The days since her late-night encounter with the blacksmith had passed quickly, but the mystery of his true identity was never far from her thoughts. She kept turning his name over and over in her mind, worrying at it like a spare coin in her pocket. Was he really a dwarven prince? Were his people noble exiles? She had always had a fantastic imagination as a girl, and had carried that trait with her into womanhood. Try as she might to focus on needlework or her studies or yet another tea with Mrs. Bluelyn, she found herself daydreaming about halls of stone filled with dragonfire and the smoldering fury of a wronged race.

When Tuesday morning finally arrived, Elana was up to watch the sun rise. She had slept fitfully the night before, anxious for her meeting with the blacksmith and his introduction to Master Cowlter. What's more, when she told Megga of her plan to bring Master Cowlter with her to the forge, her maid had insisted on going as well. So it was that the three of them set off to town after a quick breakfast. Elana had dreamed up a pretense that they were visiting the apothecary so Master Cowlter might teach her which herbs and minerals to order for various household remedies. She knew that her mother would take this as evidence her daughter was seriously interested in marrying soon and running her own household, but she could not come up with a better cover for their true purpose. Thankfuly, Eric, son of Arton, had remained blessedly absent from their many teas at the Bluelyn residence, so at least she was in no immediate danger on the matrimony front.

The morning air was crisp against her face, causing her to huddle further into her warm hooded cloak. Megga had a notoriously bad tolerance for cold and was wrapped in woolens from head to toe, but Master Cowlter wore only his roughspun robe and seemed to be enjoying the fresh air. They walked in a brisk silence, Elana finding herself unable to make small talk when another encounter with the blacksmith loomed before her. Would he betray her midnight visit? She felt confident she could convince Master Cowlter to keep his silence, but did not relish the idea of explaining herself to one of her fathers trusted advisors.

As they approached the forge, she spied smoke curling from the chimney and felt her heart beat a brief tattoo against her chest. Some small part of her had hoped they might be too early, and that perhaps she would be able to put off the meeting for a few more days. She did not understand herself; why was she suddenly reluctant to speak with the blacksmith when she had thought of little else but him for the past several days?

"Well, here we are!" she said, her voice a bit too bright. "Shall we see if the sword is ready as promised?"

Pushing her nerves aside, she strode in front of her companions and gave the forge door a sharp rap with her knuckles before pushing back her hood and smoothing her hair. She always fiddled with her hair when she was nervous, and was not surprised to feel Megga grasp her wrist and pull her hand from her head with a pointed look.

They waited several long moments, each of them straining their ears for some sign of movement within. Elana finally raised her hand to knock again when the door was roughly yanked open and found herself staring into a great expanse of brown beard.

"Can I help ye?" the dwarf barked as Elana took a few unconscious steps backwards.

Valar save her, but this dwarf was a rule brute of a man. Much like the blacksmith, he was taller than she, but at least three times as wide. It seemed his shoulders barely fit through the doorway, and the top of his head and forearms were covered in strange tattoos. He was also heavily armed, with two axes strapped across his back and a wickedly curved knife hanging at his side. She heard Megga give a little shriek, and could not help the frown that crossed her face. So much for proving to her maid that not all dwarves were dangerous beasts.

The dwarf continued to glower at them, and Elana belated realized they had all been staring and had not responded to his question. Pulling on her years of training as a lord's daughter, she plastered a smile on her face and gave him a quick curtsey.

"Good Morning, Master Dwarf. My name is Lady Elana; I am here to pick up a sword that I comissioned. Perhaps the blacksmith Thorin told you I would be coming?"

She seemed to have shocked the dwarf, for his eyebrows lifted and his glower turned curious. "Yer the one who commissioned the sword?"

Elana lifted her chin slightly and nodded. "Might we step inside?"

The dwarf continued to stare at her, before belatedly remembering himself and stepping out of the doorway. He herded them inside with a swoop of his great arm, then turned to walk towards a back door. "Wait here, I'll get Thorin for ye." He knocked on the back door and shouted some harsh, gutteral words she did not understand.

"Khuzdul," she heard Master Cowlter mutter to himself.

Within seconds, the door opened and the blacksmith appeared. Like his companion, he was heavily armed, with a mail shirt covering his tunic and a sword belt fastened to his waist. Elana's breath caught in her throat as she took him in. He looked fierce and unapproachable, every inch a warrior.

He strode towards her, dipping a quick bow and inclining his head at her companions. "Lady Elana. I did not expect you so early. I was stepping out to train with my kinsmen. You must forgive our attire."

His voice was measured and even, his tone polite but slightly cold. So he is pretending the other night did not happen. I shall do the same.

"Please, do not apologize. We are a bit early, but I confess I was anxious to see your work for myself." She gave him a bright smile, before letting her expression drop into a slight frown. "That is, if the sword is ready as you promised? I haven't come too early for that, have I?"

The blacksmiths companion gave a rough snort and crossed his massive arms across his chest, his earlier curiosity replaced with the original glower. The blacksmith gave him a sidelong glance before returning his eyes to her. He was trying to remain politely distant, but Elana could tell she'd annoyed him. Good.

"The blade is ready. A moment, please." He walked over to a low-lying table across the room, returning with a large bundle held out from his chest. "Your sword, my lady." He offered her the bundle, his hands brushing hers for a moment as Elana took the sword into her arms. She felt the contact keenly, as if he's singed her with his fingers, and drew back quickly, only to nearly topple over with the weight of the sword.

Master Cowlter rushed forward to steady her. "Careful, my lady."

"It's so heavy! Surely no man could wield such a blade for long in battle."

Both the blacksmith and his brute of a companion smirked. "Aye, no man could long bear that weight," said the blacksmith as he moved to take the sword back. "But you asked for a dwarvish sword, did you? I can make you another blade, more suitable for a human, if you intend for your father to use it as more than decoration."

Elana fixed him with a fierce glower of her own. "No. I want an authentic weapon. Master Cowlter, help me remove the sheath. I want to inspect the blade."

Elana grasped the pommel of the sword tightly in both hands as Cowlter reached over and yanked off the protective leather sheath. She managed to hold the blade aloft for all of a moment before the tip clanged inelegantly against the dirt floor of the forge. Still, for that moment, she had been mesmerized. The steel shaft was perfectly straight, narrowing into a blunt tip with razor-sharp edges. The sword was more geometric than an elvish blade, all precise edges and angles instead of gracefully curving steel. There were also markings along the shaft, the runes as geometric and stark as the blade itself. She tried to lift the blade again to get a closer look at the engravings, but could not seem to bring it more than a few inches off the ground. There were times she despised being so petite, not to mention female.

Master Cowlter saw her predicement and knelt beside her. "With your leave, my lady, I'd like to inspect the weapon as well."

The blacksmith and his kinsmen watched with wary eyes as Elana nodded. "Of course, master. You know what to look for better than I. You'll be able to tell me if it's a true dwarvish sword."

Elana risked a glance at the blacksmith's face as she said the latter, and saw his jaw clench and his eyes narrow even further. Yet he held his tongue as Master Cowlter leaned close and ran a hand down the shaft of the blade. The master's fingers traced slowly over the runes and he muttered to himself for a few moments, before nodding his head and returning to a stand.

"That is a very fine sword, my lady. This blacksmith is talented, make no mistake." Cowlter paused, turning his gaze to the two dwarfs. "But, if I might ask...why is there not a bloodburn on this weapon? Or is that not one of the customs practiced by your clan?"

"What do you know of bloodburns?" the blacksmith growled, his low voice almost angry. "Or of dwarvish customs at all?"

Cowlter held up his hands. "I'm sorry, I meant no offense. I have seen several dwarvish weapons in my time as a master, but they were crafted in the great forges of Erebor. I suppose I should not expect that all dwarrows bless their weapons in the same fashion as the descendants of Durin."

"We are..." began the brutish dwarf, before he was silenced by a quelling look from the blacksmith.

"You know something of dwarvish history?" The blacksmith stepped forward and held out a hand. "It is not often we meet a man with knowledge of our people. What is your name, master?"

"Oh, how rude of me," Elana piped in. "This is Master Cowlter; he is my father's advisor, and my tutor. Master Cowlter, this is...oh dear, I'm sorry blacksmith. I'm afraid I can't quite remember the name you gave me. Dwarvish names are so different from ours. Thorin Oakenshield, was it?"

The blacksmith shot her an incredulous look and paused, as if he were debating on how to respond. Elana wanted him to repeat the name he's given her for himself. He seemed to finally make up his mind, as he dipped a low bow.

"At your service, Master Cowlter. If you know of Erebor as you claim, then my name might be familiar to you. I am Thorin, son of Thrain. This is my kinsmen, Dwalin, son of Fundin. We do not readily give our true names to learned men, but as I have already told Lady Elana my identity, I cannot withhold it now."

Master Cowlter gave a small smile. "Yes, she told me of the name you gave her. In fact, that is truly why I'm here. I wanted to see for myself if the King Under the Mountain was residing in Fornost. We are very, very far from Erebor. You must forgive me if I was a bit skeptical of your claim."

The blacksmith lifted his chin, his eyes turning to ice chips. "Be as skeptical as you wish. I have no need to prove myself to any human."

"No, no you misunderstand me. Now that I have met you, I have no doubt you are as you claim. You see, I saw you often when I was child." Cowlter stood taller, and his voice become grave. "I was born in Dale. And like you, I lost everything to dragonfire."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! Just wanted to give everyone a big thank you for reading and for reviewing my story so far. I have not written fan fiction in several years, so it's very nice to know that you are enjoying my tale. If anyone has questions or is looking forward to seeing certain things, please let me know! I am always so encouraged whenever I get your reviews or comments! 
> 
> Also, if anyone is getting a little bored waiting for things to heat up between Thorin and Elana, I wrote a smutty one-shot that takes place on Thorin and Co's last night in Laketown. If that's not your thing, then steer clear, but it was fun to try my hand at writing a sex scene. The story is called "One Such as You," and you can find it by clicking on my author's profile. That's it for now; hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a happy holiday!

Thorin could not believe his ears. Human survivors from Dale were rare--survivors of any race from Dale were rare. Smaug had done his fiery work all too well.

  
"You are from Dale? Now I am the one who is skeptical." Thorin tried to keep his tone polite, but in truth he was very uncomfortable with this conversation. He was a damned fool for giving his name to Lady Elana--of course she had gone and meddled where she did not belong. And now he had an educated man to contend with, a man who clearly knew much more about his people than any other human he had yet encountered. This did not bode well.

  
The master shrugged. "Of course you are skeptical. But yes, I am one of the lucky few who survived Smaug's attack. My mother and sisters were not so fortunate." The man's voice cracked at these words, but he continued on, an undeniable sorrow clouding his eyes. "You see, my father was a traveling merchant, and by the grace of the Valar had taken me with him on his last journey before the dragon came. We arrived back to a smoldering ruin, our once fine home reduced to a tomb filled with charred bodies. The nightmares haunt me still."

  
"You are not alone in that. I am sorry for your loss, Master." Thorin gave him a stiff bow, unsure of what else to say to the man. Fortunately, Lady Elana was not at a loss for words.

  
"Oh, Master Cowlter! I'd never have brought you here if it meant you had to relive such horrid memories." She held the Master's hand tightly between two of her own, her green eyes shiny with unshed tears. Her maid eyed the contact with disapproval, but her lady did not seem to realize she was being rather forward. "Why did you not tell me of this?"

  
"I am sorry to trouble your kind heart, my lady." Cowlter patted her hand, then withdrew his own. "I did not wish to tell you until I was certain that your blacksmith was as he claims. I am sure for many present, the past is not an easy place to visit."

  
"No, indeed. I cannot imagine the sorrow, for all of you." Elana looked over at Thorin then, and he wanted to scream at the naked pity in her eyes. He was not to be pitied. By anyone.

  
"Yes, well, it was long ago," he huffed. "I think it is clear that none of us wish to speak anymore about that time. If the sword is acceptable, I'd ask that you take your leave and let myself and my kinsmen continue our morning." He knew his words were rude, but he wanted the humans to leave. Especially the sweet smelling Lady Elana, who had gone from baiting him with saucy remarks to staring at him with a mix of awe and tenderness.

  
"I have not paid you yet, blacksmith...I mean, Lord Thorin. Surely you are not in the business of making swords for free." Well now, the sauciness was back in full force. She knew damned well he had waived the fee for the sword, but seemed determine to make him say so in front of this audience...or she intended to pay despite his offer and wanted to pretend the incident from the other night had not happened. Irritating, complicated female. He did not appreciate whatever game she was playing.

  
"Just Thorin. I am no lord to you."

  
"King Thorin, then. Regardless, I intend to pay you. Megga, my reticule, please." Elana turned to her maid, hand outstretch.

  
Thorin could not help himself; he stepped forward and grabbed her wrist without thinking. As it had before, the contact with her skin seemed to sizzle through him.

  
"Do not call me king. Thorin, only, if you must address me at all. And we already struck a bargain for the sword. I will not accept your charity."

  
Before Elana could speak, her maid burst between them, clearly outraged that he dared to touch her mistress.

  
"You will remove your hand this instant, dwarf!" The little maid's eyes blazed at him as Thorin immediately stepped away from the pair of them. He felt Dwalin's eyes boring into his back, but he would not risk a glance at his friend now. He did not need any more condemnation. Where was his self-control? He was not the sort of dwarf who laid hands on women, or threatened them. Why couldn't he keep his composure around this thrice-damned human?

  
Lady Elana laid a calming hand on her maid's arm. "Peace, Megga. I must have insulted the blacksmith without realizing it." She met his eyes over her maid's shoulder. "I paid him upfront for the sword, but intended all along to give him additional coin if the weapon met my expectations. I did not realize he would think it anything other than compensation for a job well done. Clearly, I do not know enough about dwarves to understand when I am giving offense." So Lady Elana was not only beautiful, but an excellent liar, as well. As if Thorin needed further proof that the woman was a threat to him.

  
Master Cowlter, who had been silent during the entire awkward exchange, spoke up. "An easy mistake to make, my lady. The dwarves of Erebor were always a very proud people. Why, I remember a time my father delivered some goods to a family of miners who lived in the lower halls of the mountain. He dealt with them often, and had come to regard them as friends. They had just welcomed a new daughter into the world, so my father included some gifts for the baby with the rest of the provisions. He then spent half an hour explaining to the father that the items were a gift, before finally giving up and accepting payment for them!"

  
Elana gave the Master a grateful smile. "How interesting, Master." She turned again to Thorin, a playful light in her eyes. "So dwarves do not give gifts? How do you celebrate occasions, then?"

  
To Thorin's surprise, it was Dwalin who answered. "Of course we give gifts. We are not so greedy as that. We just do not easily accept them from outsiders."

  
"Nor do we like mixing business with friendship," Thorin continued. "I am sure the miner in this tale did not want to be indebted to your father. If he lived in the lower halls, he was likely not wealthy, and would not accept a gift that he was not certain he could not return in kind."

  
Lady Elana nodded her head. "Yes, well that's rather logical, though different from our culture. Gifts are not given, nor recieved, with the expectation of returning the favor. But to each, their own. I suppose I shall have to find another use for the gold I brought today."

  
Use it buy yourself a dress that covers you, Thorin thought to himself. Lady Elana had pushed her cloak back from her shoulders, and the low cut of her gown was distracting him. In truth, her chest was slight, nothing compared to the generous bosoms of dwarven women, but that only seemed to make her more provactive. On a more endowed woman, the cut of the dress would have been obscene; on her, it was elegant, understated, as if she were not quite aware of just how much skin she was showing. For a brief moment, he imaginged running a finger along her collar bone, before tracing down to the small cleft that was barely peaking out over the top of the fabric... _Stop_ , he chided himself. _You have acted badly enough for one day_.

  
Refocusing his attention, he noticed that another awkward silence had fallen over the group. Was he supposed to say something?

  
Lady Elana beat him to it. "Well, I suppose we had better be off. I have to get this sword to the house before Father returns from his morning ride." She paused, fingers toying at the hair at her temple.

  
"Master Cowlter, do you want to ask Lord Thorin a question? I know we had discussed something before we came today..."

  
"Ah, yes, my lady. I was waiting to make sure you still approved," Cowlter shot her a nervous smile before continuing. "Ah, um, yes, well you see, Master Dwarf, I was wondering if you might be willing to meet with me a few times a week for, well, a history session of sorts. I would ask you questions, and transcribe your responses."

  
"What kinds of questions?" Thorin asked suspiciously. "Why are you so curious about my people?"

  
"Because so little is known about them!" Cowlter exclaimed, clearly warming to the topic. "Did you know there is not a single scroll written by a dwarf about the Fall of Erebor? All accounts I have read are second-hand, and end when King Thranduil did not arrive in time to battle the dragon nor save the dwarrows fleeing the mountain."

  
"That is NOT what happened!" Thorin roared as Dwalin yelled the same. Master Cowlter shrank back as both the dwarves glared at him. "Who wrote these scrolls you have read?" Thorin demanded. "Surely that cannot be the story that all of Middle-Earth has heard!"

  
Cowlter hesitated, looking at the ground. "I am afraid that is how the tale goes. As I said, I have not found a written record of the event from any dwarves. It is mostly the wood elves who have recounted the history, as they know it to be. I was not aware there is more to the story; why would the elves lie about the events?"

  
"Because the bloody elves have no honor! They betrayed my people, forsaking us at our greatest need. I will not stand for their foul lies to be spread any further," Thorin growled.

  
"Language, Master Dwarf," snapped Megga. "I understand you are angry, but you will do your best not to swear in front of my lady."

  
Thorin had forgotten about the bold little ladies maid. She reminded him of a fierce terrier, yipping and yapping at every danger to her lady's "sensibilities."

  
"And ye will do yer best to watch yer tone when speaking to my king," Dwalin barked back, his own hackles clearly raised. The little maid eyed him with disdain, but before she could fire back a retort, Lady Elana cut in.

  
"Enough of this. We have clearly broached another sensitive topic. There will be plenty of time to discuss this when Lord Thorin comes to Darnan Hall."

  
"I have not agreed to come anywhere," said Thorin. "Nor did I agree to tell any of my people's secrets to an outsider. We have scribes of our own who document our history."

  
"Then I suppose you shall keep your secrets, and the rest of Middle Earth will continue to think that the elves did not betray you," shot back Lady Elana. "Indeed, the elves are such a great race, so refined and cultured, it is hard to believe that they did any such thing. Come, Master Cowlter, Megga. We must be leaving."

  
Thorin knew she was baiting him; she had done it several times this morning, and he had yet to react. But this was too much to be borne.

  
"I will think about your offer, Master Cowlter, " he sighed. "You know that dwarves are very secretive--we have always been so. But to hear that the elves' betrayal is unknown, that no dwarf has yet told the true tale...well, perhaps it is time to be forthcoming. I shall let you know my decision soon."

  
"I look forward to it," Cowlter bowed. "For what it is worth, I consider it a great honor to have met you both"

  
Thorin and Dwalin returned the bow as Cowlter gathered up the sword and walked to the forge door. He was followed by Megga and Lady Elana, who paused on her way out the door and dipped a curtsey.

  
"It was lovely to meet you, Master Dwalin . And Lord Thorin," she said, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze, "I hope to see you at Darnan Hall soon."


End file.
